Page 31 of Off Camera
“You’re free Tuesday, though?” he asks, hopeful.
“For dinner with you?” I smile. “Yeah, I am.”
“Good. That’ll be fun.”
I climb off him and curl up at his side. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I sigh, content, and dance my fingers across his collarbone.
“Thank you for making tonight fun,” I whisper. His grip on me tightens, and I relax into the feeling of being safe. A spot I’m not familiar with, but I’d like to get to know. “I thought the cake might be the shining moment, but you swooped in there and stole the show.”
“I told my friends about you.” He pauses and huffs out a tired chuckle. I think he might be half asleep. Delirious and on the cusp of dreams. “Fuck, that sounds creepy.”
“You were writing my name in your diary, weren’t you? Playing MASH and using me on your lists of wives.”
“We’re probably going to end up living in a shack. I’m sorry about the hole in the ceiling,” he says.
“I’ll decorate and make it nice. What did you tell your friends?”
“How I was kicking myself for not getting your number at the bar. And then you show up here tonight, and… I don’t know. As someone who likes routine and order and hates being surprised, I’m beginning to think I might need to start going with the flow more often. Especially if that means I’ll get you as a result.”
“The last wedding I went to, my boyfriend at the time made out with a bridesmaid,” I say. He loosens his hold so he can scoot across the sheets and look down at me. His eyebrows wrinkle and his mouth droops to a frown. “I know, I know. Trust me, Ilearned my lesson, and you helped me break my bad wedding streak.”
“What else was included in the streak?”
“The time before that, the groom showed up in Crocs and really killed the vibe.”
He laughs. “Did that douche from the other night try to message you after your stellar date?”
I close my eyes and stretch out my legs. “No. He thinks my name is Ashley, so some girl is probably getting harassed via Instagram DMs because he mistook her for me.”
“Sometimes I think the bar for my species can’t get any lower. Then there’s someone like him who reminds me women’s standards for men are in the depths of hell.”
“Deeper.” I yawn. “All the way down in Treachery.”
“You’re a Dante fan?”
“I took AP Lit in high school like everyone else. I retained about eight percent of the material.”
“That’s seven percent more than me.” He rests his palm on my stomach and drums his fingers on my hip. “You can stay here tonight if you want.”
“I might have to. The last thing I want to do is put that dress back on, and I don’t think walking down the hall in a T-shirt that barely covers my ass is proper wedding attire.”
“It’s past midnight. The time for proper wedding attire is long gone. God knows what you’d see if you went out there now. Dicks, everywhere, probably.”
“Guess I have to stay put, then. It’s safe here.” I open one eye and look at him. He’s already looking at me, and it makes my insides warm. “What?”
“Nothing. Just—” Reid shakes his head. “You. This. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me. It happens to my friends, and…” He trails off. “It feels like I’ve been dreaming for the last two hours.”
“It feels like that for me too,” I admit. “I really would like to stay, if that’s okay. I’ll leave in the morning before you need to check out and?—”
He draws me close to him and kisses me. It’s tender, nothing like what we did earlier, but in the moment, it’s perfect. When he pulls away, he sighs into my hair. I can feel his contentment too, and we don’t have anything else to say.
The night spirals to morning in a blur of hands and tongues. Of hour-long naps and being woken up with the hot press of his mouth against my shoulder blade. Of one shower then another, sharing bits and pieces of ourselves—physically and emotionally—until the sun starts to rise and my body sags with exhaustion.
I rip off a piece of paper from the notepad on the floor and give him my number just as the clock turns to six. A swarm of butterflies flutter in my chest when he cups my cheek and kisses my forehead, a hickey on his neck and a pair of boxers hanging low on his hips.
“I’ll text you,” Reid says, leaning against the door. His eyes are heavy, and there’s still a smudge of lipstick on his neck. He tries to hide his yawn, fighting off the tiredness with a lazy smile that breaks free across his mouth. “Soon. After a massive cup of coffee.”
“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t,” I say.
